


send us a blindfold, send us a blade

by haymitch (noblydonedonnanoble)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/haymitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"On the train ride home from the Capitol, Katniss burst into his room in the middle of the night, demanding some of his liquor."</p><p>A take on the 'Peeta died in the arena' trope, perhaps my personal favorite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	send us a blindfold, send us a blade

_I._

                On the train ride home from the Capitol, Katniss burst into his room in the middle of the night, demanding some of his liquor.

                “You’re lucky I’m an insomniac,” Haymitch told her gruffly. “But that’s where your luck runs out. I finished off my last bottle yesterday.”

                He figured that, with the promise of liquor rescinded, she would leave as quickly as she had come. This was not the case. Instead, Katniss flung herself onto a chair and let out a groan of frustration. “All they have in the dining car is some disgusting Capitol stuff—”

                “Oh sweetheart, if your aim is to get drunk, it’s not going to happen with that.”

                So she had noticed. “I know. That’s why I’m here. I wasn’t exactly seeking out your delightful company.”

                Haymitch quickly assessed her intentions with the statement, and detected no malice. He hesitated. This was probably where he was supposed to invite her to spill her heart to him, or something of the like. But he wasn’t the sort, and he didn’t think that she was the sort to confide in much of anyone, and certainly not in him.

                And anyway, he knew damn well why she wanted that drink.

                He looked at her, slouched in that chair. Gone were all traces of her Capitol makeover. She didn’t look like a victor anymore. She just looked tired.

                “There was nothing you could do,” he said at last.

                Katniss scowled. “You don’t know that.”

                As soon as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. Haymitch had been through the Games, and he understood what had happened to her. But he didn’t bother to argue with her. It was too late at night for an argument. And so they fell silent.

                He wondered why she stayed. As she said, she wasn’t there for his company.

                “Everyone in 12 is going to hate me.”

                Haymitch felt his stomach drop and he looked up, startled. Katniss sat hunched, arms wrapped around her knees and hugging them tight. He questioned, at first, whether she had actually spoken, because she stared at the floor, eyes unfocused. But then she glanced up and made eye contact. So he’d not imagined it, apparently.

                “They won’t hate you,” he whispered. He remembered when that had been his biggest worry, whether people back at home would resent him for living. “Peeta fell. There wasn’t anything you could do for him.”

                “I could have just fallen too.”

                Haymitch grimaced, his mouth a fine line. “Don’t talk like that, Katniss.”

                Now she was the startled one, frowning over his use of her actual name. What a serious matter this must be, if he wasn’t calling her ‘sweetheart’. She said, weakly, “I don’t mean it. I just… other people might. You and I both know I’m not the one they would have chosen to come back.”

                Oh, but she was Haymitch’s choice. And he almost pointed that out to her, but he thought better of it. Best not get overly sentimental.

 

 

_II._

                Katniss’s victory tour was a success, at least to the extent that victory tours can be successful. Effie in particular congratulated her on being so cooperative, on playing her part so well and smiling up a storm as she read Effie’s pre-written speeches from district to district.

                Haymitch didn’t like it. He hated watching the fight leave her, bit by bit. What he would have given for her to throw a tantrum, for her to complain about the absurdity of the whole affair.

                During her appearance on Caesar Flickerman’s show, they replayed the moment that ended the Games—Cato pulling Peeta off the Cornucopia, both of them falling to their deaths as they were ripped apart by the mutts down below. They showed Katniss’s cries of anguish, shouting Peeta’s name as tears streamed down her face.

                On stage, she remained alarmingly collected, even as Caesar poked and prodded at the open wound. What a shame, he said, that Katniss and Peeta’s newfound happiness was cut off so abruptly. She agreed stiffly, but gave no indication that his relentless nudging was at all distressing.

                “Would it have hurt to at least shed a few tears?” Effie asked, exasperated, as Katniss rejoined them all in the screening room. “The audience looked more affected than you.”

                “I’m not going to cry over Peeta for their entertainment.”

                Besides, she wanted to argue, it’s not like their love story was anything more than an act anyway. Just a way to gain some sympathy. Not that she wasn’t upset by the loss, but it wasn’t exactly the devastating blow that the Capitol was trying to make it out to be.

                She knew better than to say that aloud, of course. But she glanced at Haymitch, and she knew he knew. But she also knew that he would keep it their little secret.

                When they disbanded, he was unsurprised to hear her trailing a few paces behind him. He didn’t turn to look at her until he reached the door to his room, at which point he finally asked, “What do you want, sweetheart?”

                “Like you don’t know.”

                He rolled his eyes, but gestured that she join him. “How many times have I told you that drinking your life away is no way to solve your problems?”

                “You’re one to talk,” she retorted, making herself comfortable on his bed.

                “Just because I do it, doesn’t mean you should.”

                This was the closest Haymitch had come to expressing aloud a rather painful sentiment—he saw so much of himself in her. And he didn’t want to see her turn out as he had. She deserved better than that.

                But he sat down with her anyway, a bottle of white liquor in hand.

                Katniss always told him that she didn’t want his company, every time she came to his door. But they both knew that she could just as easily drink alone. It might be fair to say that it was his company she desired over everyone else’s. When she returned from the Games, everyone at home expected things of her. Her mother, Gale, even Prim, expected her to confide in them, to in some way use them to ease the burden.

                Haymitch expected nothing. Haymitch understood.

                And so she did crave his company. It was his _sympathy_ she didn’t want, and Haymitch could read between the lines.

 

 

_III._

                Their tributes were dead.

                It had been clear from the get-go that they wouldn’t have a winner; the boy was only Prim’s age, and possessed no marketable skills. When he was almost immediately slaughtered during the initial bloodbath, it was no surprise.

                The girl lasted longer, simply because she outran the competition. But the Careers stumbled upon her campsite on the third night while she was sleeping. She didn’t even know what hit her.

                Katniss was woken in the early morning by a camera crew at her bedroom door, desperate to get her reaction to the news. After telling them precisely where they could shove that camera, she returned to bed and tried, in vain, to fall back to sleep. She couldn’t sleep, not when she knew that her tributes were dead. Not when she knew that, back home, their families were mourning for them.

                He came to her, that morning. He knocked on the door, and eased it open before she could even invite him in.

                Perhaps she should have objected to drinking so early, but that had never stopped them before.

                After a few minutes of silence, he said, matter-of-factly, “It doesn’t get any easier.”

                She looked over at him, mid-sip, and frowned. This diverged from their usual routine of getting drunk together, but saying practically nothing. “I didn’t ask if it did.”

                “I know. But I thought it would. And it doesn’t. Stay at this long enough, and you wonder what the point is in trying to prepare them, if they’re bound to die anyway.”

                “Did you think I was going to die?”

                The question had lingered at the back of Katniss’s mind ever since she was pulled out of the arena, and it was a relief to voice it.

                Haymitch carefully considered his response, aware of her scrutiny. Finally, he said, “I hoped that you wouldn’t.”

                “I feel like I did die, almost.”

                “Everyone dies in the Games, sweetheart. It just takes some of us a while longer to get the message.”

 

 

_IV._

                She kissed him, and her aim was off. She only got the corner of his mouth, but it was still enough to stun him. He didn’t move a muscle as she pulled back, and as she grabbed the wine bottle from his hand to take another drink.

                “What was that for?” he choked out at last.

                “I was curious.”

                Haymitch raised his eyebrows and reclaimed the wine. “I think that’s a sign that you’ve enough for tonight.”

                She scowled and tried to snatch it away again, but he held it out of her reach. “I’m not sixteen anymore. This isn’t a question of whether I can hold my liquor.”

                It was certainly easier to blame it on that, than for Haymitch to allow himself to imagine that she had a genuine interest in kissing him.

                “Go home, sweetheart.”

                “No.”

                What a time for her to turn into a brat. He glanced vaguely in the direction of the clock, but didn’t even bother to note the time before saying, “It’s late. Your mother’s probably worried sick.”

                In the four years since the Games, Katniss had never heard a peep from her mother about the late hours that she kept. Concern about such extensive interaction with Haymitch, yes, but Katniss generally dispelled those remarks by pointing out that he was the only reason she was alive.

                “Very funny. You and I both know she’s probably sound asleep.”

                He stared at her mutely, willing her to leave. She didn’t. “Can I kiss you again?” she asked instead.

                “No, Katniss. You’re drunk.”

                She would never be used to the sound of her own name coming from him. As always, it took her aback, but she recovered quickly. “Can I kiss you when I’m not drunk?”

                “Sure, sweetheart.” Like she’d actually want to. He knew she’d wake up the next morning and the very thought of kissing him would leave a bad taste in her mouth.

                And that was best. She really deserved better than Haymitch. Haymitch, who'd sworn to keep her from turning into him. 

                God, how he’d failed.


End file.
